Guild Wars: The Aftermath
by ViWi
Summary: The aging, retired guildmaster Fabian Grey makes one last journey to seek out his old friends and comrades in arms.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

**There's a PDF of the (nearly) completed story on my profile (containing story-related screenshots from the game, as well as a fancy map of Tyria). If there is enough interest I will post all chapters here as well. **

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><p><strong>Guild Wars – The Aftermath<strong>

"**Thus quaffed the Raven: No More"**

_For Luca_

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

Time-line: 1078 AE (Mouvelian Calendar), Season of the Zephyr

Place: Shiverpeak mountains, 300 feet below the surface

* * *

><p>The ground trembled and shook as the great wurm, bleeding from numerous wounds caused by arrows, blades and sorcery, toppled over like a felled tree – Its impact against the cavern floor sending clouds of dust and dirt in all directions.<p>

For a moment time seemed to slow to a crawl, a perfect stillness descended upon the scene, muting all sound, action and thought. As the dust started to settle, slowly uncovering the silhouette of the slain beast; the coarse voices of men pierced the silence, roaring out their victory in an ever rising crescendo.

"This!" Slade howled "Is the way to live."

"And a quick way to die" Fabian laughed.

"Better to die now, at our peak, than to grow old and useless Fox!" Slade said, slinging his charcoal-colored bow on his back.

"If you are so keen on throwing away the retirement plan, you won't mind the necromancer and I pocketing your share of the valuables then?" Fabian teased and started for the sizeable treasure trove that lay waiting further in the chamber behind the husk of the wurm, its great gaping maw still smoldering red hot.

"Retirement? Pah!" The dark-haired ranger spat behind him. "I'll not end my days wasting away in some backwater village, mark my words – there's only one way for a true Ascalonian to end his days!"

"Making another case for the old _'Going out in a blaze of glory argument' _again I see." The necromancer, joining them from the flank, smirked. "As long as you leave me out of any suicidal plans to mount an assault on the Charr homelands or single-handedly recapturing Rin."

Unable to help himself, Fabian burst out laughing.

"At least I will be remembered as actually possessing a spine!" Slade said defensively as the three unlikely friends and comrades-in-arms made their way deeper into the chamber to claim their prize.


	2. Part 1

**Part I**

Name: Fabian Grey

Birthplace: Ashford village, Ascalon

Occupation: Ranger protector of the (yet) small settlement of New Ascalon in Kryta, former Guildmaster of the Venator Solaris guild.

Description: Medium height, sharp alert eyes, long whitening hair, strong aging facial lines, beardless chin, thin and wiry build, wearing simple travelers clothing

Estimated age: late fifties/early sixties

Nicknames: Fox, Old Fox, Captain Grey

Trademark skill: Incendiary Arrows

Favorite emote: /Shoo

Class: Ranger/Monk

Deity: Dwayna

Time-line: 1101 AE (Mouvelian Calendar), Season of the Scion

Place: Raven's Keep, 10 leagues Southeast of Lion's Arch

* * *

><p>The sturdy wooden door was already half open, allowing a faint trickle of women's laughter to escape into the dimly lit hallway outside.<p>

Reaching the top of the winding stairs, Fabian halted his pace momentarily, inhaling deeply – as much to steel himself before the oncoming confrontation as to catch his breath. There had been at least ten years since he had last seen his former friend – now master of the keep – and they had not parted on the best of terms. He recalled the heated exchange of words. Anger had made them say things that were hard to take back that day, though try as he might now, he found it difficult to remember why they had been so angry in the first place.

For the longest time, the two rangers had been as inseparable as brothers. Fighting by each others sides through countless battles – Traveling to strange, foreign lands – Seeing things no Ascalonians had ever seen before. When had things become broken? When had their unshakable bond started to erode?

The women's laughter emanating from the chambers was joined by a coarse howl and the sound of a bottle shattering against stone.

All hopes of a sober, heartfelt reunion dashed, Fabian proceeded towards the door, swinging it open with a determined push. His leering, shirtless old guild-mate was lying on the floor with a bottle of wine tightly clutched to his chest like a cradled baby, a giggling half-naked servant girl clinging to each of his sides.

"Hahaheha... and THEN an even bigger wurm appeared, tossing little Thom to the side with one fell swoop, nearly clipped me in HALF had I not ducked in precisely the right..."

Fabian cleared his throat audibly.

"Hurr... wha? I said NOT to disturb! By Grenth I swear..." Slade Raveneye, Baron and Lord of Raven's Keep stopped himself mid sentence, gazing at the gray-haired stranger by the door with unsteady eyes.

"Fa... Fabian? Is that you?"

Fabian sighed. "Yes old friend, it's me."

Untangling himself from the girls, Slade jerked himself up into an awkward sitting position on the floor. For a moment he looked as if he didn't know what to do with himself, like an overgrown man-child trying to decide if he should feel embarrassed for being found in such a compromising situation.

He shook his head profusely, as if to dispel the effects of both shame and liquor, then bellowed:

"Girls! Put some clothes on! You are in the presence of a legend!"


	3. Part 2

**Part II**

Name: Slade Raveneye

Birthplace: Diessa Lowlands, Ascalon

Occupation: Baron and Lord of Raven's Keep, former lieutenant and second in

command of the Venator Solaris guild.

Description: Slightly above average height, Long black hair, beard stubble, tired green eyes, plump stomach and cheeks, wearing a wine-stained shirt of finest Elonian silk

Estimated age: late fifties/early sixties

Nicknames: Raven/The Raven

Trademark skill: Poison Arrow

Favorite emote: /No

Class: Ranger/Necromancer

Deity: Grenth

Time-line: 1101 AE (Mouvelian Calendar), Season of the Scion

Place: Raven's Keep, 10 leagues Southeast of Lion's Arch

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><p>Seated on opposite ends of an over-sized table adorned with intricate wooden carvings in the main dining hall of Raven's Keep, the now fully clothed Slade motioned to one of the servant girls. With some time to gain his composure, Slade looked animated, if not completely sober.<p>

"Something to drink for the captain, Elza dear!" He said heartily.

Elza, a shapely, mouse-haired girl in her early twenties, bowed and disappeared into the nearby kitchen. A few moments later she resurfaced with two steins containing dark, murky ale.

"No, no, no! Not this Elonian swill, are you daft girl?" Slade barked after having tasted the ale. "Fetch the Ascalonian stout from the cellars, and step on it!"

The girl winced and recoiled at her masters words as if they had physically lashed her, quickly collecting the two ale-filled steins and vanishing from sight again. An awkward silence ensued for a few moments.

Fabian eyed his old friend skeptically in the flickering torchlight. Once sprightly and muscular with an unyielding aura of vitality about him, the man in front of him looked unkempt and worn out; His hair was long and greasy, a thick black stubble covered his face and his belly protruded in a round arc underneath his wine-stained silk shirt.

"You've let yourself go." Fabian noted casually.

Slade shrugged. "All perks of leading a Baron's life."

Fabian raised an eyebrow. "Aye, must take a terrible toll on a fellow."

"Pah!" Slade scoffed. "Not all of us can be content with the life of a peasant. After all we went through, I'd say it's well deserved. No?"

When Fabian didn't reply, Slade raised his voice, calling out to the servant girl again. "Elza! Where is that damnable stout!" He smiled apologetically. "The girl is slow, but she's a good romp in the sack so what can ya do." He shrugged. "Now, what was I saying?"

"I believe you were justifying your becoming a plump, ill-tempered, servant-abusing drunkard." A harsh undertone had crept into Fabians voice, and his eyes had hardened. "Let's hear it."

"Oho!" Slade's face flushed with red as he retorted "So it's going to be like that is it? I'll not be insulted in my own keep, not even by you! Besides, you don't exactly look like a freshly hatched moa chick yourself, face it Fox, we're not young anymore!"

"It's true, much is lost with age," Fabian mused. "But I should think one's dignity would remain intact – Perhaps the good Baron Raveneye needs a mirror to see the damage he has inflicted upon himself?"

"Dignity? Dolyaks shite!" Slade flew up from his seat, sending his chair hurtling backwards. "Why did you even come here for...? What has it been, ten years? Fifteen? Why DOES the great captain Grey grace me with his presence?"

Fabian sighed, his shoulders slumping down. Here they were, at it again. Ten years had passed, but nothing had changed. For some reason they were as irritable around each other as ever. He realized that much of it came from still holding his friend to the standard of the past – that he might never again live up to – but it was difficult to simply accept his comrades downward spiral. The Slade he remembered would have looked down upon this disheveled and broken version of himself as much as he did – if not more.

"Apologies friend, I did not come to dredge up old grudges – Too much of the old captain left in me I suppose." He straightened up again, his eyes and voice softer. "I came here to invite you to my daughters wedding."

While the two men looked at each other, one fuming, the other calm and collected – Elza appeared quietly from a side-door, tip-toeing up to the table and carefully setting down two ale mugs and a dusty, ancient-looking bottle carrying the seal of the old Ashford brewery.

"Thank you... Elza was it?" Fabian murmured. "You can retire for the evening." The servant girl gave a quick courteous nod and scurried out of the dining hall.

"Don't presume to...!" Slade began, but Fabian interrupted him, raising his hand. "She's marrying some upstart merchant prince from Khodash, can you believe it?"

Still wearing a sour expression, Slade slowly relaxed his stance, finally collecting his chair from the floor and sitting down again.

"I was away from the settlement a mere ten-day," Fabian continued while reaching for the flask of ale. "Helping the locals of a neighboring village to deal with an Ettin problem you see, and when I got back, this traveling merchant prince from Elona had swept into the settlement with his entourage."

He paused and poured the ale into the cups, shuffling one towards Slade.

"They were all the rage in the settlement, all anyone would talk about. To me, they looked like a bunch of flamboyant rainbow-colored peacocks, but..." He shrugged. "A sign of my age I suppose, not keeping up with the times?"

"Pah, Elonians..." Slade snorted and took a swig from his ale. "They ARE a bunch of rainbow colored peacocks, the lot of them! And DON'T get me started on the Canthans!" He paused for a moment, then added; "No proper Ascalonian stock in that settlement of yours?"

"I suppose I should be more protecting as a father," Fabian laughed. "but it's a new world old friend, it's a new world. Besides," he went on, "the settlement could never prosper if we shut our gates from the rest of the world. Right now the future of the Ascalonian people depend on how well we can adapt and integrate with the other nations."

"Yes well," Slade murmured, looking away. "At least you're not letting her marry an Asura." He sighed. "So, when is this atrocity taking place?"

"At the turning of the season, three moon-cycles in." Fabian replied, his face growing serious for a moment. "It would mean a great deal to me if you would come, though I won't hold you to it."

Slade snorted. "Fine-fine. At least you didn't use the _'for old times sake' _speech."

"It's settled then!" Fabian grinned broadly. "Oh, and Slade, if that thing is still stubbornly clinging to its life – for the sake of my daughter – leave your disgusting pet spider at home will you?"


	4. Part 3

**Part III**

Time-line: 1101 AE (Mouvelian Calendar), Season of the Scion

Place: Raven's Keep, 10 leagues Southeast of Lion's Arch

* * *

><p>Slade Raveneye swayed back and forth, spilling most of his ale over the stone-inlaid staircase leading down into the dark, dank basement.<p>

Having seen his old Guildmaster off at the keep gates after the unexpected visit, ten years overdue, he was in an odd mood. He wasn't angry, not exactly. It had been good to see his friend after so long, and yet, there was a part of him that wished to tear down the old man and all his foolish intentions. So much was broken; Ascalon was gone, and no matter what the survivors named their little refugee camp, that would always be so.

"I don't remember... there being... this many steps, Ruthers?" he huffed, trying to steady himself against the railing.

Ruthers, the keep groundsman, smiled stiffly. "You haven't been down in the old armory for many years now master. It is... understandable."

Navigating the steep descent in the flickering sheen of Ruthers' torch, Slade found himself

growing increasingly nostalgic, even as he tried shutting the memories out. But it was useless. The gray-haired old man that had once been like a brother to him had stirred up something buried and forgotten from the depths of him. While others might fondly recall love, glory and unfailing youth – Slade's mind was swimming with images of his homeland, pristine and pure – untouched by both the ravaging flame of the Searing and the trampling of nailed paws.

Reaching the foot of the stairs, a sturdy wooden door covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs blocked their path. Slade, inhaling at the wrong moment, received a mouthful of the stuff.

"Why is it so dirty down here?" he barked after recovering from the fit of coughing.

Ruthers glanced at the intoxicated Lord of the Keep with a nervous eye. "Well, since you stopped coming here, the servants have been..." he hesitated for a moment. "Reluctant to enter on account of..."

"On account of what?" Slade bellowed. "Out with it man!"

"They're afraid of the **spider**, sir." Ruthers finished somewhat lamely.

"Afraid of the..." Slade stared at the groundskeeper incredulously. "Open the damnable door!"

Ruthers snapped to attention. "At once my lord!" he said, fishing out an old rusty key from his pocket, sliding it into the lock.

The door creaked like an old tree swaying in the wind as it opened, revealing a carpeted hallway that stretched onwards into blackness.

"Torch!" Slade commanded, holding out his right hand.

Receiving the blazing oil-drenched piece of wood without a word of protest, he propped his mug of ale into Ruthers' empty hands. "Hold this, and don't spill it!"

Ruthers nodded somberly and clutched the mug to his chest as if his life depended on the prevention of even the tiniest drop of ale escaping containment.

Stepping through the door, Slade held out the torch in front of him, letting it illuminate the dark passage. "Kitthix?" he called out. "Are you in here?" When nothing happened, he added; "I have brought another useless servant for you to feed on!"

Turning just in time to see Ruthers' half-panicked expression, Slade howled with laughter.

"Silly old thing is probably more scared of you, than you of it." he told the harried groundskeeper.

"Besides," he added. "I wouldn't be surprised if it crawled into some murky hole and shriveled up years ago."

Not entirely calmed by his masters words, Ruthers followed as Slade stalked deeper into the corridor. Treading the soft carpet inside the small light radius of the torch, they found the closed off and neglected space looking about as filthy and forgotten as the door outside had. The surrounding shadows parted way while they moved, creeping along the walls, escaping the light.

"I... did you hear that?" Ruthers whispered suddenly, flinging his head left and right looking more than a little paranoid.

"Calm down before you soil yourself man!" Slade said. "I didn't hear anything."

"But... that clicking sound m'lord..." he whispered again, his voice skittish. "Like mandibles being rubbed together."

"Kitthix knows his master." Slade replied confidently. "You are safe with me."

The corridor walls closed in on them as the passage narrowed, ending with another door that was barred by several additional layers of gates and locks.

"Here we are," Slade breathed. "I sincerely hope you have the correct keys for all these locks."

The spooked groundskeeper fiddled with the keychain, his hands trembling slightly as he attempted each of the locks in turn. It was clear that he wanted nothing more than to take shelter in the presumably spider-free room beyond.

After a few minutes of fumbling, he swung open the innermost door and beckoned for his master to enter.

Stepping into the old armory, Slade wondered why he had been drawn here tonight, after neglecting it for so long. The oval-shaped room was small, spanning no more than a few meters of length from wall to wall, filled to the brim with trophies, weapons and armor. Heads of exotic-looking beasts were mounted on the walls, and in the middle hung a ragged strip of dark blue cloth bearing the sun-shaped silver emblem of his old guild.

Taking a few trying steps forward, he allowed the memories infused in these physical objects to wash over him. He closed his eyes, attempting to clear his intoxicated mind somewhat. When he opened them again, they came to rest upon a black regal suit of leather, studded with obsidian rock.

"Ruthers," his voice pierced the silence. "I wish to don my old armor."

"Of course my lord" the groundskeeper moved to remove the armor from its stand while Slade fastened the torch to a holder on the wall.

"My ale." he said as Ruthers approached.

Only rarely dipping into his small stock of Ascalonian stout since there were but a few cases of it left (and none more being produced since the Ashford brewery had burned in the flames of the

Searing), the liquid pouring down his throat left a bittersweet feeling. With each swig of the ale, it was as if another irreplaceable part of his past drained away, never to return again.

"Are you finished man?" he grumbled, looking down at the groundskeeper.

The kneeling Ruthers was frantically struggling with the straps around the waistline. After a few moments of stretching and pulling, he awkwardly looked up. "I'm afraid it doesn't quite... erm... fit." he said delicately. "I can have one of the armorers in Lion's Arch re-fit it first thing come morrow m'lord."

"What? Let me see that you incompetent fool!" Slade bawled, pushing the groundskeeper away and grabbing the straps himself. But despite pulling with all his might, the armor would not yield to his protruding belly.

"Hells!" He roared, throwing the clay mug against the wall, shattering it into a million pieces.

Shocked by his own outburst, he stood mesmerized, starring in mute silence as the dark ale slowly made its way down the stone wall, gathering in a small pool on the floor below. In the orange glow of the torch, the liquid took on a crimson hue. _Lifeblood of Ascalon_, he thought while his eyes slowly started to water.

For a few moments he just stood there, letting the salty, warm liquid paint his face with long streaks while Ruthers cowered on the floor. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady and sure, as if he had made up his mind about something.

"Wake the rest of the servants." he said.

"S.. Sir?" the confused Ruthers stuttered.

"You heard me." He spun around, facing the door. "Have them bring out the casks of Ascalonian stout – everything they can find."

"I don't..." the groundskeeper began but was interrupted.

"We're drinking it all Ruthers." Slade said with that same calm determination. "Every last drop of it."


End file.
